


Becoming Lovers

by Anonymous



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 21:11:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At first he welcomed the silence. To get away from the tennis stadium, to sit on his own, the sound of the traffic the merest whisper from the streets below, it was exactly what he wanted. He went over and over the match again, every shot that went wide or long, every ball that ended up in the net. But soon his thoughts strayed to the distraction: Rafa, standing in the dressing room before the match. Roger’s mind was in knots. Soon the silence became oppressive, too many questions, not enough answers. That single thought that overwhelmed all others: Rafael Nadal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to jenniebellie, my tireless and ever-encouraging beta. <3

Rafa sat on the locker room bench for some time after the match, his top still sticking to his skin, his tennis shoes thrown haphazardly near his racket bag. Vamos Rafa, he read from the back of his shoes, and smiled grimly. Those words were no longer relevant here in Madrid. The disappointment sat like lead in his belly, sickening and twisting and he could not ignore it. Toni and Maymo and his father had already been and gone, hugs and slaps on the back and words of comfort muttered in his ear. They meant so much, as they always did, but he needed some time to think by himself and they knew that and left him alone.

His sticky, sweaty top was cold and clammy against his skin and he was just about to rouse himself and pull it off when the door banged open. He could not see around the lockers, but he heard the footfalls and the breath and he did not need to see.

“You’re early,” he said. He looked up as Roger looked around the lockers.

“Hey, Raf,” he said gently, a warmth on his face that was part concern and part just Roger. “Sorry about your match. You okay?”

Rafa shrugged. “Yes, I am okay,” he said. “Just a bad day, no?”

Roger leaned against the lockers, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Yeah, I guess it happens,” he said.

Rafa quirked an eyebrow, a single syllable of laughter escaping his lips. “Not to you, I think, Rogi,” he said, his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. He scrubbed at his face as if he could peel away this sense of defeat, of exhaustion, but it made no difference and his stomach still felt like lead.

He did not notice Roger moving until he was right there, sitting beside Rafa, shoulder to shoulder with their backs against the row of lockers. The room was quiet, nothing but a distant drip of water from one of the showers to break the silence. It smelled clean in here, that same smell of locker rooms everywhere, scrubbed tiles and lacquered beech, shampoo and deodorant and shower gel. Suddenly Rafa became aware of his own sweat, his sticky clothes and hair, and the sense of Roger beside him became more acute, as if Roger was hotter against his skin, as if Roger was soaking him in.

“Everyone has bad days, Rafa,” said Roger. “For me, Roland Garros final.” He looked sidelong at Rafa, his eyes half hooded and half a smile on his mouth.

Rafa had to laugh at that.

“And last year, Roland Garros final,” said Roger, shrugging and smiling more now.

Rafa shook his head. “Is not the same, you know, Rogi,” he said, but he said it gratefully. He felt lighter, somehow, with Roger’s words.

“I know,” said Roger, quietly. “I just want to remind you of your great days, Rafa.” He gently nudged against him, their arms skin to skin from shoulder to forearm. “But I wish I could play you on Sunday.”

Rafa turned to look at him. Roger’s eyes were fixed on his own with such an intensity. Rafa felt the tension in his body melting, his muscles losing the sense of defeated exhaustion he had carried from the court, the twisted feeling in his stomach dissolving to nothing. “Me too,” he said at length.

“Maybe Paris,” said Roger.

“Maybe.” Rafa smiled. “I hope so.”

Roger smiled in return. “Take care of your knees. Get some rest.”

“Sí, sí,” said Rafa. “You sound now like my uncle.”

Roger laughed and leaned forward, laying a hand on Rafa’s knee as he stood up. “Well, listen to your uncle and play me in the final in Paris.”

Rafa looked up at Roger where he now stood, the light from the downlighters in the ceiling catching in stray strands of hair and his face cast partly in shadow. “Good luck for today,” said Rafa. “I stay in Madrid till Sunday, I see you play in the final, I am sure.”

“You’re staying till Sunday?”

Rafa shrugged. “Yes, keep practicing on the surface, I think.”

Roger nodded. “Well, maybe then I see you around.”

“Yes,” said Rafa. “See you around.”

Roger nodded once more before returning to the other side of the lockers. Rafa sat for a moment and heard him banging open the locker door, taking out his gear and laying it on the bench. The absence of heat from Roger’s body left his shoulder cold. Then he stripped off his damp and sweaty clothes and stood for some time under the shower, the heat of the water seeping into his muscles and rinsing out his hair.

If Roger was still in the locker room as he got dressed, Rafa did not hear him.

~*~

He was. Roger sat, a racket in his hand, the one he would begin with. He liked to feel its heft before the match, liked the familiarity of the grip against the heel of his hand, the texture of the taping, the sound of the strings. He felt strangely heavy today, as if there was some extra weight in his muscles. He knew he could work it out before the match, so it did not concern him unduly; he did wonder at it, though. Ever since Montreal, Roger had felt this sense of heaviness whenever Rafa lost in a tournament before he could play him. Montreal, then so early in Cincinnati, then the disappointment of the US Open, where Roger had hoped finally to face Rafa on hardcourt in a slam. Not like the red and green of clay and grass, when clay was Rafa’s and grass was his, and no one believed it would change. These hardcourts and indoor courts, blue and purple, these were colours that he had won on but were not organically his. He thought of them as neutral territory they could play for, if only Rafa could get to the finals.

He heard Rafa stand for a long time in the shower, the smell of soap and steam rolling across the locker room towards him. Roger sat back against his locker, his eyes closed, his ears filling with the sound of hissing water hitting tiles and skin. After a while Rafa emerged and Roger thought for a moment that he would come around the bank of lockers and find him here, silent and still with his racket hugged to his chest, Rafa with a towel slung low across his waist and water beading on his skin. But he did not. Roger sat with shallow breath, eyes fixed on the wall opposite, and did not move till Rafa had dressed and packed his things and gone.

 

The first set against Feliciano Lopez was unsettled. It went to tie break. The fact that Feli wore the same top as Rafa seemed to Roger some kind of affront; having to watch Rafa lose so miserably and then having to face another Spaniard across the net, another Spaniard in blue with softly tanned skin. Another tournament passing; a set nearly lost. Roger pulled himself together in the second, wasting little time winning and getting off the court. He was in no mood for three sets today. Then to the showers, scrubbing errant thoughts of Rafa from his mind with too much soap and hot water. When he emerged his skin was red from the heat.

That night he felt a tight emptiness in his chest, and making love to Mirka did nothing to fill it up.

 

Roger did not see Rafa around the tennis centre the next day, though he kept finding himself looking around, looking for his unkempt, dark hair in the crowd, his smile. He did not see it, did not see Rafa’s face among the throngs of people. He tried to put it from his mind for the match against Kiefer, but again it took the first set to settle down, and he finally took it in the tiebreak. The second he took with little patience.

Knowing that the final would not be against Djokovic was something; he did not like it at the US Open, he did not like it at Montreal. He could not shake the thought that Novak was an upstart, Rafa’s usurper, even though he knew by now that such an assessment was unfair. But it did ease his mind somewhat. Tomorrow, if not Rafa, then Nalbandian; why not? If not Rafa, it made no difference.

He spent that evening with Mirka curled under his arm, flicking idly through Spanish television stations till they tired of trying to understand and put on a DVD. When they went to bed, he lay on his side, staring in to the darkness long after her breathing had evened and she had fallen asleep.

 

The next morning he was still out of joint, as if he moved apart from everyone surrounding him, as if fitful sleep had somehow distanced him from the world. Overnight everything had become too loud and too garish. Breakfast tasted of nothing in his mouth and he could not shake the cobwebs from his mind. It was a beautiful autumn day outside the hotel, but he felt as if he moved through it like a ghost, a revenant of tournaments past. The final weighed heavily on his mind.

The bustle of the tennis centre was dulled to an irritating buzz in his senses and, after a little hitting practice, he went quickly to the locker rooms, briefly kissing Mirka goodbye as she wished him luck for the final. The locker room was perfectly quiet. There were some rackets lying around, a few towels and kit bags, but there was no one to interrupt the silence. Roger sat heavily on a bench and sighed. He closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the dehumidifier, nothing else to hear in the empty room.

And suddenly it was not empty. He opened his eyes as Rafa came around the lockers, a smile on his face.

“Rogi,” he said. “I think I heard someone coming in. Is you.”

He stood there as Roger had imagined him only two days before, a towel slung low across his waist and his skin still wet from the shower. His hair hung in stringy, wet locks around his face.

“Rafa,” said Roger.

“I no disturb,” said Rafa, running a hand through his hair to smooth it away from his face. “Just say hi, and good luck for the match.” He smiled when he said it, then turned away as if to leave Roger to himself.

“Rafa, wait,” said Roger, though when Rafa paused and turned to him, his face expectant, he did not know what to say. Roger stood up, trying to be casual, lifting his bag onto the bench in some semblance of getting ready. “So you were practising today?”

Rafa nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Practice all morning. Much better than Friday,” he added, laughing. All around him on the ground were drops of water, falling from his hair and his skin. Roger found his breath quickening inexplicably in his chest.

“Good to hear,” he said, fumbling with the zip on his bag. “You’re staying around here in the stadium for the final?”

“Yes,” said Rafa. “I watch from the lounge. Good luck,” he said again, a grin spreading across his face.

Roger had to smile in return. It was infectious, Rafa’s smile. “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I see you after the match, I hope.”

“I’m around,” said Rafa. Then he turned, his hand raised in farewell, and left Roger to himself on his side of the lockers.

Roger busied himself with his gear, unpacking everything he did not need to bring on court and leaving it in his locker, and making sure that everything else was packed into his bag. All the while, his mind raced, thoughts of Rafa overwhelming his senses. On the floor beside him were wet footprints surrounded by drops of water; it was as if Rafa still stood there, still watched him, naked apart from a towel. Roger felt himself stripped bare, as if his face had slipped and he had shown his quietest thoughts to the world, as if there was no more illusion to be maintained.

It was almost a relief.

 

Roger knew his mind was not fully on the match against Nalbandian. It did not worry him much; he cruised through the first set six-one. After that it seemed inevitable, the slide to another straight sets victory, another title, another impromptu speech praising a lesser player. This did not feel like arrogance, just experience. And so his mind stayed a little unfocused, one part of it always dwelling on the thought that somewhere close by, Rafa was watching him on a screen.

And then, point by point, he found the second set getting away from him. Shots that would usually curl right inside the baseline were floating long, and balls that in every other match would just catch the sideline were sailing out between the tramlines. Compared to his usual form, the set was a string of unforced errors. Two breaks of serve in the set; it was unconscionable. Roger mentally berated himself for being so unfocused, for allowing anything else into his mind during a match. Nothing, not even Rafael Nadal, should disrupt his tennis.

And yet somehow the third got away from him, too. To see that last shot and realise that that was it, the match was over, the entire tournament, and he had not won, it was heartbreaking. He sat in his chair during all the hubbub of preparation for the presentation ceremony and wondered how on earth he had let this one get away.

And he could not help thinking that somewhere close by, Rafa was still watching. So Roger pulled himself together, gave his obligatory speech, uncharacteristically going first and feeling the smaller trophy strangely light in his hands. He was unused to seeing a player other than Rafa hold the heavier one. He left the arena as fast as he could afterwards, retreating to his corner of the locker room, ignoring the sound of David’s people congratulating him on his victory.

 

He took his time leaving and then met Mirka and the others outside the locker room. He was quiet, deflated, and they left him be with few words. They went straight back to the hotel.

“You want to come out to dinner?” asked Mirka quietly, her hand resting on his arm as they sat together on the couch. She never smothered him with concern when he lost, she just let him be, let him think.

He shrugged, drawing her closer to him in a brief hug. “Not really. You go, though.” He turned to her. “I’ll just stay here, you know. Think for a while.”

She ran her fingers through his hair, pushing it back behind his ear, and smiled at him fondly. “Don’t think too hard,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.” She kissed his cheek.

“I know,” he replied. “I just want to sit for a while.”

“Okay,” she said, kissing him again before standing up. “I’ll see you later.”

The door shut gently behind her.

At first he welcomed the silence. To get away from the tennis stadium, to sit on his own, the sound of the traffic the merest whisper from the streets below, it was exactly what he wanted. He went over and over the match again, every shot that went wide or long, every ball that ended up in the net. But soon his thoughts strayed to the distraction: Rafa, standing in the dressing room before the match. Roger’s mind was in knots. Soon the silence became oppressive, too many questions, not enough answers. That single thought that overwhelmed all others: Rafael Nadal.

And then a knock at the door. Roger stood up mechanically, his eyes bleary from too long a reverie, his hair messed from sitting with his head in his hands. He opened the door without checking the peephole.

Rafael Nadal.

“Rogi,” he said, and Roger had to shake his head to clear his mind, this conflation of imagination and reality jarring him.

“Rafa,” he replied. “What are you doing here?”

A look of concern passed fleetingly across Rafa’s face. “I pass by, I think maybe I say hello. Is okay, I can go.” He took a step back as if to leave.

“No,” said Roger, opening the door wider. “Sorry, I’m just surprised, to be honest. Come in.”

“You sure?” asked Rafa, tentatively.

“Yes, yes,” replied Roger. “Come in.”

Rafa seemed still uncertain, but came inside. He looked strange, tamed somehow, standing in Roger’s suite wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. The room felt too small to contain him.

“I just want to say sorry about the match,” said Rafa, his hands dug into his pockets.

Roger looked away. “Thanks,” he said.

“You okay?” Rafa asked it almost with embarrassment.

Roger shrugged and looked back up at Rafa. “Just had a bad day, I guess,” he said, half smiling.

“So now that makes two of us, no?” replied Rafa, echoing Roger’s smile.

“I guess so.” Roger shook his head, holding one hand to his face. “I don’t know what happened,” he said. “I can’t believe I lost that match.”

“At least you won a set,” said Rafa.

Roger laughed gently. “Yeah, good point,” he said. “Hey, you know, come and sit down. We can have a beer or something.”

“You sure you don’t want to just stay alone?” asked Rafa, the uncertainty returning to his voice.

Roger put a hand on his arm to direct him towards the couch. “I’m sure,” he said, watching Rafa sit and then heading towards the minibar.

 

They drank companionably, sitting side by side on the couch as they had sat in the locker room. The evening had darkened and Roger had turned on the single lamp beside the couch by the time they hit the fourth bottle. Rafa was sprawled against the leather of the couch, his feet propped up on the coffee table, holding his beer in one hand on his stomach. His other hand was behind his head. Roger felt not drunk but relaxed, happy.

“You should not drink today,” said Rafa around a mouthful of beer. “You play Basel, no?”

Roger shrugged. “It will be fine,” he said. “Not till Tuesday.”

Rafa nodded contentedly. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said.

“You know, Rafa,” said Roger, letting his eyes roam over his sprawling body and coming to rest on his sleepy eyes. “Today I wish I played you. I don’t mind so much losing to you.”

“No?” Rafa laughed. “Then I wish today I play you, too.”

“But maybe I would not lose against you,” continued Roger, musingly. “You always make me play better.”

Rafa raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you see me on Friday,” he said.

“Yeah, I see you everywhere else, though,” said Roger. “I see you at Wimbledon, at Roland Garros. Half the year I see you.”

Rafa looked away, disappointment fleeting on his face. “Still only half the year,” he said, his voice quiet and heavy.

Roger, stretched out similarly to Rafa, his legs propped on the coffee table, nudged Rafa’s foot with his own. “Next year,” he said gently. “Next year I will win Roland Garros, you will win Wimbledon, then we both play the final in the US.”

Rafa looked at him, a smile on his face and his gaze a little fuzzy; from the alcohol or something else, Roger could not tell. “You have it all planned, yes?” said Rafa with an amused smile.

Roger grinned back at him. “It seems, you know, balanced,” he said, holding up his hands evenly to demonstrate. “You know, not like I just let you win Wimbledon. But I think maybe you will.”

Rafa was laughing now. “Okay, is good plan. I like it.”

“You know, everybody says they want more guys to get to the top, but I like it best when it’s just you and me,” said Roger.

Rafa’s face sobered gently, the light of the low lamp catching in his eyes. “Me too,” he replied.

“You came here this evening, you were just passing by?”

Rafa’s face faltered, a flicker of something in his eyes, something warm, almost amused. “Passing by,” he repeated, as if trying to decide what to say. He sighed, his chest rising and falling, the bottle of beer he held on his stomach doing the same. His fingers were wet with condensation. “No,” he said, finally. “I come here to see you.”

Roger felt the weight of the words, the sudden heft of this thing between them. It was as if the world had been brought into focus, somehow, as if all at once a sprawling story, a mess of moments, had been narrowed to a single point, a single place and time and sense of urgency. The hotel room, dim in the light of the single lamp, smelling of polish and mahogany and the deep dark scent of leather, seemed to encompass everything that Roger cared about, everything that mattered. Rafa’s face was soft in the gloom, patient, his darkling eyes fixed on Roger’s own. Roger felt foolish, all of a sudden; too exposed, too vulnerable. And yet this wasn’t a court, this wasn’t a game. No such worries need plague him now.

He slowly reached out a hand to Rafa’s face, his forefinger tracing the shape of a cheekbone, the pad of his thumb grazing along Rafa’s lower lip. Such a full, generous mouth, he thought. Such a face. He felt his heart race against his ribcage. Rafa’s proximity was heady, intoxicating, far more so than the beer. He spread his palm against Rafa’s jaw, holding his face, and Rafa moved towards him, finding greater contact against his hand. “Rogi,” he said, and Roger could feel the shape of his own name in Rafa’s mouth.

And then he dropped his hand. Rafa frowned in confusion, and Roger felt his eyes on him as he stood up, aimlessly at first, bottle in hand and the feel of Rafa’s skin still tingling against his palm. “Sorry,” he said, like an afterthought, walking away from the couch, from the pool of light in the middle of the room, towards the windows. He drank some beer, his mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t know why…” he shrugged helplessly and stared out the window. The street below was quiet, and he could see across adjacent rooftops, amber streetlights punctuating the darkness. The sky was black overhead, but in the west it was still a deep blue, the last remnants of sunshine around the curve of the world.

He felt a hand on his back, placed directly between his shoulder blades. “Rogi,” said Rafa, again.

“Rafa,” replied Roger, his voice little more than breath between his lips. He felt Rafa’s arm wrap around him, felt the weight of his chin hooked on his shoulder. Rafa squeezed him companionably, and Roger could not help but smile at the unexpectedness of it.

“No need for sorry,” murmured Rafa, his mouth so close to Roger’s ear that he could feel his breath. Rafa’s fingers spread against his stomach, strong fingers, strong hands holding him in place, pressing him against the length of Rafa’s body. He dropped his head back against him, Rafa’s mouth open and hot against his neck. Roger felt the scrape of stubble against the delicate skin under his ear and gasped at the strangeness of it, the alien feel of another man so intimate. Rafa’s arms surrounded him now, at first tenderly, gingerly, but suddenly he held Roger roughly and turned him around, their mouths meeting in a mess of lips and tongue and teeth, breath loud against each other’s cheeks. They clung desperately to each other, one of Rafa’s hands on the small of Roger’s back, the other buried in his hair, holding him in place. Roger felt dizzy, overwhelmed; he gripped on to Rafa’s shirt as if he would fall were it not for the solid strength of his body.

“Rafa,” he said, pulling back, breathless. “I can’t… Mirka will be back.”

Rafa nodded, his forehead still resting against Roger’s. “I know,” he said. “I know.” He took Roger’s mouth against his own again, kissing him desperately now. Roger could not help but give in.

But it had to end. Roger pressed his hand to Rafa’s chest, gently pushing him away even over his own protests. Rafa stepped backwards, his face a mess of desire, confusion and a trace of fear. His fingertips lingered against Roger’s arm, and Roger found himself grasping for Rafa’s hand and longing to pull him back against him, to feel their bodies flush again, but the fear of being caught, that desperate, cold feeling crawled up his spine. The pale amber of streetlights fell on Rafa’s face through the window, and Roger heard the sound of rain.

They stood like that for many silent moments, their fingers entwined between them, until eventually even that connection was lost and their hands fell to their sides.

“Rafa,” said Roger, his voice sticking momentarily. “I’ll see you in Paris, yes?”

Rafa nodded, his mouth pressed flat, something defensive in his eyes now. Roger hated to see it there.

“I should go,” said Rafa, flatly, hitching a thumb towards the door.

“Wait, Rafa,” said Roger. Rafa paused, about to turn. Roger did not know what to say; everything, nothing. I love the taste of you, the feel of you. I don’t want you to go but I don’t know what to do. Stay, just stay. He cleared his throat. “Where will you stay in Paris?”

Rafa said nothing, but half a smile crept across his face. Again he stepped forward, their bodies once more so close, that electric sense of Rafa’s proximity again tingling across Roger’s skin. Rafa leaned in, one chaste kiss to Roger’s lips before he spoke, his voice coming from somewhere low and deep in his belly. “I see you in Paris.”

And then he turned, one last gleam in his eyes and flash of smile and he was gone.

Roger sighed deeply, his eyes closed, and then went back to the window, his forehead against the pane and his breath causing blooms of mist on the glass. The rain was falling hard now, and the shadows of rivulets ran down his face. Below on the street, he saw a figure hunched over against the weather, his dark hair already straggly in the rain.


	2. Sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He thinks of moments under the sheets in Paris, autumn light falling lazily on linen, mottled shadows on Rafa’s sleepy, sated face.

Winter is white and empty, bleak and brown and barren. The snow turns to slush at the side of the pathway leading up towards the apartment complex, a dirty water-brown. Trees stretch up from the ground towards the flat, pale blue sky like black skeletons unwilling to fall to earth. This is the in-between time, the training time, the time away from the endless tour, and Roger thinks that he should enjoy it, enjoy life at his own pace for a month before it all starts anew. He watches through the window as if awaiting some particular occurrence, though there is nothing to anticipate. His own restlessness irritates him. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back here for Christmas, he thinks. Maybe it would have been better to stay in Dubai.

The wind is southerly today. He thinks of red clay, blue Mediterranean water, yellow desert winds rolling up from Africa. He thinks of the south, cool now in winter but never cold in his imagination. Never as cold as Switzerland. He used to love the snow, but now it means nothing to him. He no longer skis. He thinks of boats on the water, cold hands on a fishing line, sitting, thinking. He thinks of Manacor at Christmas time. Pale sunlight falls watery through the windows casting the stark shadows of branches across the floor. He can hear the silence.

 

He thinks of moments under the sheets in Paris, autumn light falling lazily on linen, mottled shadows on Rafa’s sleepy, sated face.

“What will we do?” asked Roger, his fingertips tracing a path along the small of Rafa’s back, their breathing slow in warm and muggy tandem. It was the fourth time he had asked.

Rafa lay on his belly, eyes closed and hair dishevelled against the white pillow. “Stop asking, I don’t know,” he mumbled.

Roger nuzzled against his shoulder, salt sweat and sex on Rafa’s skin. “I want to do this again. I want to do this all the time,” he said to the curve of Rafa’s shoulder blade. He kissed the words into his skin like tattoos; he trailed them in whispers along his body, down the dip of his spine.

Rafa sighed, rise and fall. “Okay,” he said. “Yes.”

Roger stilled, climbing back up Rafa’s body till he lay flush against him, breath against Rafa’s cheek. “Yes?” he repeated. “Yes what?”

“Yes, yes, I want, too,” said Rafa. He opened his eyes a little, turned his head. Roger felt every movement of his body, every muscle, every breath.

“How?” he asked.

Rafa moved his hips a little, Roger’s cock snug against his ass. “Like this,” said Rafa, smiling, his eyes closed again. Roger felt him laugh to himself.

“Rafa,” he said, nuzzling into his neck. “You know what I mean.”

Rafa was silent for two heartbeats; three. “Yes,” he said then. “I know what you mean.”

“Well? How?”

Rafa buried his face in the pillow. “I already tell you, I don’t know, Rogi,” he mumbled, voice fuzzy through the feathers.

Roger sighed. He worked his hand in between Rafa’s stomach and the sheet, wrapping himself around him, their legs entwined, sticky, sweaty. “When do you have to go?” he asked.

Rafa grunted, a frown on his face. “Soon, I think,” he said. “I go to practice.” He pushed the sheet down, sunlight suddenly overbright, the low autumn sun shining deep into the room. Roger did not need the clock to tell him it was well after noon. “Maybe I go now.”

Roger’s arm tightened around him, his face pressing into the curve of his neck. “Don’t,” he whispered. “Stay.”

Rafa turned over, wrapping his arms around Roger’s body, holding him close, kissing him softly. “I must go,” he said. “You know Mirka will be back soon.”

Roger pulled away at the mention of her name, disentangling himself from Rafa’s arms. “I know,” he said, rolling onto his back, away from Rafa. He covered his eyes with the back of his hand, against the sunlight, against the sudden invasion of his warm cocoon by the cold afternoon light of autumn. He could hear Rafa’s steady breaths, then feel the pull of the sheet as he sat up.

“I go,” he said, flatly.

Roger rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and then reached out for him, his hand spread against the base of his back. The heat of Rafa’s skin soaked into him. Rafa glanced down at him, his face closed now, all sleepiness gone.

“I see you again soon?” asked Roger.

Rafa shrugged. “Text me,” he said, before pushing back the sheet and getting out of bed. Roger watched as he found his clothes from where he had flung them hours earlier, loose jeans and an old t-shirt, sweatshirt, socks and trainers. He pulled them on one by one, pushing his hair back behind his ears, smoothing it out with his fingers. He turned towards the bed where Roger still lay, legs still tangled up in sheets that smelled of sex, of Rafa.

“We find some time soon,” said Roger.

Rafa nodded. “Yeah,” he said. He looked so young, all of a sudden; something bewildered in his eyes, something uncertain in the set of his shoulders. His face had set into a frown.

Roger sat up, the sheet gathering around his waist. “Rafa,” he said. He felt suddenly as if there was something to be lost, here; he pushed the sheet out of the way and stood up, walking around the bed. “Rafa, we’ll work it out,” he said. He stood close to him, their hands finding each other, fingers entwining.

“Oh yes?” said Rafa. “Is you who keep saying, what will we do?”

Roger dropped his head. “I know,” he said. He leaned his forehead against Rafa’s shoulder. “I just need to think. We need time to think. Figure it out.”

“Hm,” said Rafa. He held Roger’s head in his hand, raising his face again. “I know.” His expression softened, amusement now in his eyes. “You should get dressed, I think.”

Roger smiled. “Usually you are the one going around naked,” he said, raising a sly eyebrow.

Rafa ran his fingertips over Roger’s chest, down to his stomach. “Mmm,” he said. “I think should be you.” He let his eyes roam over Roger’s body, the narrow hips, perfectly defined chest broadening towards the shoulders, narrow but strong arms. Roger bit his lip, suddenly embarrassed.

“Yeah, I’ll get dressed,” he said.

Rafa let go his hand. “Okay,” he said. “I go.” He let his eyes take one last, lascivious tour of Roger’s body and then, laughing, turned and left the room. “See you,” he called from the other room.

Roger stood with his hands on his hips, listening to the door to the suite close, and Rafa was gone. Roger surveyed the bedroom, post coital sheets twisted around each other on the bed, his clothes still strewn about the room.

He called housekeeping to change the sheets before Mirka came back. He stood under the jets of the shower and felt Rafa washing off his skin, swirling round his feet and draining away. He hated the thought of it, hated the necessity, and slid the ball of his foot over the drain, watching the water rise over his toes, over his heel, until his foot was almost entirely submerged. He watched the water level inch up the rising slope of the shower bay till it was nearly full; when finally he moved he watched the water swirl around, an eddy between his feet, draining away.

By the time Mirka arrived back at their suite, he was clean and dressed and the new sheets looked like they had been on the bed all day.

 

She leaves her handbag on the island worktop in the kitchen, kicks off her shoes and walks towards him. He can hear her socks slip a little on the floorboards. She sits beside him on the couch and sits the way he is sitting, her arms folded across the back of the couch and her chin resting on her sleeves.

“We could go back to Dubai early,” she says, picking up a conversation from before. This morning, yesterday, Roger doesn’t remember.

“No,” he says irritably. “I’m tired of airports.”

She turns towards him. “You miss him,” she says simply, seriously.

Roger looks back towards the window, watches the bare branches weaving in the wind. “No, I don’t,” he says, and he hears the childishness in his own voice. He leaves it there.

She sighs long-sufferingly and Roger can tell it’s half true. “I don’t mind sharing you,” she says. “But I hate it when you mope. Call him or something.”

“No.” Roger picks at a thread in the seam of the couch.

“Fine,” she says, standing up. “I’ll call him. He can deal with you when you’re like this.”

“No,” says Roger again, turning and taking hold of her hand before she can walk away. He pulls her back down towards him and she acquiesces. He holds her close, his arms wrapped around her, his chin hooked over her shoulder. He rubs his cheek against hers. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what to do with myself these days.”

She turns her head and looks him in the eye. “You miss him,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees, with a sigh.

 

The morning Mirka found out was the third morning they spent together, including that one stolen morning in Paris. Daylight was diffuse in Shanghai, filtered through golden morning smog that had barely lifted by midday. Rafa’s body was so soft, so alluring in the light. Roger licked and kissed his way all over Rafa’s chest, down his stomach, swiping along the underside of his cock with an eager tongue. Rafa groaned with pleasure, his fingertips buried in Roger’s hair. Soon Roger turned him over, Rafa’s pert ass in the air, and he ran his tongue between those full and delicious buttcheeks. Rafa squirmed against the sheets.

“Please, Rogi,” he panted, pushing himself back against Roger’s tongue. Roger laughed and licked some more, his palms firmly holding Rafa’s ass. Rafa’s hips were already thrusting against the bed, so he reached over to the bedside locker for the lube.

When they were both slicked and ready and Roger was about to move forward, Rafa pushed up on the bed, kneeling back against his chest, his knees either side of Roger’s. Roger could not breathe as Rafa lowered himself onto his cock; slowly, as he adjusted to the feel of Roger inside him, and then faster, kneeling on the bed, Roger’s left hand on Rafa’s hip and his right wrapped around his cock. It was all he could do to meet Rafa with shallow thrusts; Rafa was doing most of the work, each rise and fall bringing Roger deep inside him. Sweat glistened on their skin, Rafa’s hair stringy and wet, now, the same as it looked on court, and their bodies slid together over and over again. Roger was falling apart under the power of Rafa’s body, the way the muscles in his thighs allowed him to ride Roger like this, to take control; Rafa was a force made of muscle and tendon and strength. His fingers were bruising into Roger’s hips, and it fleetingly crossed Roger’s mind to wonder how he might hide the marks, but he did not care, not while Rafa’s head was thrown back against him and he was crying out with pleasure, his voice mingling with Roger’s own. Roger’s mouth was open against Rafa’s back, tasting the salt of his sweat with every thrust.

It was only after they had come, their bodies racked with orgasms that seemed to hold them suspended for unknown beats of time, after they had fallen over onto the bed, their limbs entangled and sweaty and Roger’s hand dripping with Rafa’s come, that he saw Mirka standing in the bedroom doorway, her mouth against her fist. She disappeared as soon as she saw him looking at her.

The next few minutes should have been spent in a drowsy, post-coital haze, Rafa’s heavy limbs wrapped around him in the filtered gold of Shanghai’s midday sunshine, his own fingers tracing lazy shapes on Rafa’s skin. Instead they were a wordless panic, Rafa’s face set hard and unreadable as he wiped off his stomach and pulled on his clothes. Roger kept muttering to himself, “stupid, stupid, stupid,” while he rifled his unpacked suitcase for clean pants. When their eyes met it was brief and fearful.

“I’m sorry,” said Roger, shrugging helplessly. He pulled on a t-shirt. His skin still smelled of sex with Rafa.

Rafa shook his head. “No, no,” he said. “Just, talk to her. I see you some other time.” He looked in the mirror, fixing his hair behind his ears.

Roger came to stand behind him, a hand at the base of Rafa’s back. “I …” he trailed away, shaking his head. “I guess I didn’t expect this so soon.”

Rafa held his gaze in the mirror. His face was serene, calm, contrasting with Roger’s turmoil. “You do what you think,” he said, turning away towards the door. He left the bedroom without another word, and when the door to the suite closed behind him Roger found himself alone, Mirka turned towards the window so he could not see her face.

 

The Christmas tree looks forlorn in the corner, lights feebly shining in the glare of white winter sunshine. There are a few gifts under it still, looking lonely and scrappy in these desolate days after Christmas. It was three days till Chennai. Roger wonders when December 31st stopped being New Year’s Eve and became the first day of Chennai.

There is still no draw, not till tomorrow; Roger finds himself casting his eyes up and down the player list for the tournament and reassuring himself that Rafa will win this one. He finds, this year, that he can no longer be guided by self-interest alone. He wants Rafa to play magnificently right from the outset.

He closes the laptop as Mirka comes down the stairs. She looks thinner, and he hopes he hasn’t worried her. He knows he has not been himself. “Packed,” she says. “We’re ready to go. Did you call the driver?”

Roger nods. “Yes,” he says, standing up and slipping the laptop into its carry case. “The car should be here soon.”

“I’m looking forward to being back in Dubai,” she says, switching off the lights on the Christmas tree. The tree now looks darker and bleaker than ever.

“Yes?” he says. They stand side by side looking at the tree until she turns towards him and wraps her arms around his waist.

“Yes,” she replies. “Where it’s warm and the food is so good and I think you will stop being so sad.”

Roger smiles wryly. “I’m not sad,” he says.

She shrugs. “You’re a little sad,” she replies. “You’re good at hiding it, but you can’t hide it from me.”

He leans his forehead against hers and closes his eyes. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. All of this will settle down soon, I promise.”

Mirka holds him tighter and kisses him on the lips. “Yes,” she says. “It will. In Australia, I think. Till then we will go to Dubai and you will practice and stop sitting for hours staring at your laptop, calculating his chances in Chennai.”

He laughs and hugs her close, resting his chin on her shoulder. “You are too good,” he says. He feels foolish and hugely grateful all at once.

“I know,” she replies smugly, patting his back.

At that moment the car arrives, and soon they are on their way from Oberwil to the airport. Roger’s plane is waiting on the runway to take them to Dubai.

 

“She’s fine,” he said to Rafa on Saturday evening in Shanghai. It was just hours after their semi-final, but Rafa was somehow over it already, to the point of using the defeat to make Roger spend longer than usual on his knees, licking and sucking at Rafa’s cock, Rafa standing with his back to the wall of the hotel room, his fingers buried in Roger’s hair. Now they lay in bed, sleepy and sated, their sweaty limbs entangled under the sheets. The half-light of evening fell softly through the windows.

“Really?” asked Rafa, his left eyebrow raised quizzically.

Roger shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “At first I didn’t believe her, but she keeps telling me it’s true. What about Xisca? Does she know?”

“Xisca always knew,” said Rafa. “Is different between me and Xisca, I think.”

Roger nodded. “Yeah,” he said.

Rafa was silent for a moment. “So this is how it will be?” he asked eventually. “We can be together at tournaments?”

Roger turned towards him, their faces inches apart. “I guess,” he said. “How else can we do this? I don’t think there’s another way.”

Rafa sighed. “No,” he said. “You answer your own question, no? How can we do this.”

Roger half smiled, pressing the back of his fingers against Rafa’s face, a gesture of comfort and tenderness. “I guess so,” he said quietly. “You and Xisca, me and Mirka. Then, sometimes, you and me.”

Rafa held his gaze for a moment before replying. “Okay,” he said.

“Yeah?” said Roger, his voice just a whisper against Rafa’s skin.

“Yeah,” said Rafa, curling into his body and smiling against his mouth. Roger’s fingers were still pressed against his cheek, now crinkled to almost nothing under the width of that smile. He loved the lines on Rafa’s face, traced their shapes with his fingertips, kissed them softly in the darkling light of evening.

 

The Dubai sun is warm and yellow, welcoming after the cold white of Switzerland. The smell of hot concrete rises from the runway apron when they disembark, a smell that intrinsically means Dubai to him even though he smells it all over the world. Now in December it is not as ferociously hot as in the summer, but after the sub-zero temperatures of his homeland Roger feels the heat settle into his muscles, relax his body and his mind. Dubai in winter has become more of a home than the frozen mountains. Mirka too seems more relaxed here, happier, her smile wider and her shoulders no longer hunched against the cold.

The drive to the apartment is a short one, and Roger watches the familiar streets flicker by from air-conditioned comfort until they get to the apartment building. There are few Christmas decorations here, and those that he can see are for wealthy western tourists in the massive department stores and expensive boutiques of the city. He is content to ignore the last vestiges of the season and await the New Year with a quiet patience; it is New Year’s Eve, so he does not have much longer to wait.

On New Year’s Day, Rafa plays his first match in Chennai. Roger watches it with his left arm around Mirka, and in his right hand a cold beer. He can see from the start that Rafa will win. He always knows, unless Rafa is playing him.

This year, the new year really feels like a new year, he thinks to himself, watching Rafa whip a backhand passing shot down the line. He feels a little silly thinking it, but it feels like the beginning of something new.

He holds Mirka closer, his head resting against hers. It will be a good year, he thinks, and counts down the days until he leaves for Australia.


End file.
